


Lemon Blossoms

by tsauergrass



Series: Prompted [6]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Draco bakes a lot, Fluff, Lemons, M/M, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, a lot of lemons, in the literal sense, they have flower tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-15
Updated: 2020-03-15
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:00:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23150590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tsauergrass/pseuds/tsauergrass
Summary: Prompted by @ace-of-hearts on Tumblr: Drarry+soulmate tattoosHere was the thing: Draco’s tattoo bloomed. Two nights ago, but it had been slow all year long: sprouting, leaves spreading, pulling tall, the buds growing heavier and heavier. Then it bloomed and Draco wanted to laugh, because of course. Of course it was lemon flowers.Now he was afraid.He had always been afraid, just for entirely different reasons.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Series: Prompted [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1416109
Comments: 33
Kudos: 721





	Lemon Blossoms

He had a garden full of lemon trees.

He didn’t even plant them. They were just there when he bought the terrace, all thin trunks and dark, waxy leaves. If he leaned out of the second floor balcony, he could touch the tips of the branches; if he looked down from the third floor balcony he could see the treetops, round and layered with thick leaves.

“Cut them?” The worker from the moving company suggested, wiping his face with the thin, ragged towel draped over his shoulder. From the front door came the muffled voices of men, hollering for coordination, squeezing the couch through the narrow parlor.

Draco tilted his head, rubbed his chin. “I like them.”

The worker shrugged and swung the towel back over his shoulder. “Your call, sir.”

Draco did not particularly like lemons, then, or the flavor of lemons or the scent of lemons or even the color yellow. That winter, the harvest was bounteous: the garden full of lemons, bright like jewels hidden amidst thick foliage, a hint of yellow as the leaves rustled with the wind. They glowed in the cold rain when it poured. The fruit were heavy in his hands when he picked them, the faint scent of citrus lingering at his fingertips long after. A basket of tiny suns sitting on his kitchen table amid the months of incessant grey.

Harry cupped his hands and brought them to his nose, closed his eyes. Draco was always embarrassed when he did that.

“Your hands smell so nice,” Harry murmured, voice muffled into the cradle of Draco’s palms. Draco glanced at Harry and, blushing, quickly looked away again.

“You don’t even like lemons.”

“I don’t dislike lemons.”

“Yes you do.”

They had started dating a week or two before that winter. Harry helped him move, carried the remaining boxes of his belongings to the terrace with a Muggle truck, finished with three trips. The first night Draco cooked in his new kitchen they ate together, popping open a bottle of champagne and cheering in celebration. Later they fooled around on the couch, tipsy, hands roaming up and down and kissing open-mouthed, limbs tangled.

He wasn’t really sure, then, whether he should date at all. His tattoo never bloomed, never even sprouted, when all his friends got their flowers through their teenage years: Pansy’s pansies, Blaise’s amaryllises, Theo’s cosmoses. The tiny seed in the center of his chest was knocked slightly sideways by a _Sectumsempra_ scar, an edge chipped off. He thought perhaps it would never grow.

But then Harry never mentioned his own tattoo, so Draco never asked—though he wanted to, wishing it would slide yet desperately curious of Harry’s. He tried to guess, sometimes, sitting on the couch and watching Harry do whatever it was he was doing, his messy hair falling in front of his eyes.

Sunflowers?

Forget-me-not’s?

Camellias?

Lilies?—then promptly remembered his own mother was named after a flower, hoped his own was not narcissi. How embarrassing that would be.

Then later, lying in bed alone in the dark, thinking, quietly: it would be nice, actually, for it to be narcissi. Inked into his chest, right where his heart beat.

He fell in love with the lemon trees after that winter. The tiny suns, shining amid thick green leaves; the trees heavy with them, thin branches bending under their weight. He flipped through cook books borrowed from the library, looking for recipes with lemons: lemon soufflé, lemon shortbread cookies, lemon bars, lemon pudding. The terrace smelled of butter and lemons, warm with the humming oven. Harry tasted each of them, made noises as he closed his eyes and tilted his head back for prolonged periods of time, as though he was going to die from Draco’s desserts. It made Draco embarrassed and proud.

“You never asked,” Harry said one night, his head pillowed on one arm. They were in Draco’s bed. The night outside was chilly in the depths of winter, but the heaters hummed and warmed the interior of terrace, warmed every corner of Draco’s house. Harry still smelled faintly of lemons from the tiny lemon cakes. Draco reckoned he himself did, as well.

“Well, I didn’t know if—I don’t know how…how…” Draco flushed. He’d never dated, was what he was trying to say. “I don’t know how couples deal with this thing.”

Harry grinned warmly, foolishly, at the word _couple._ He was easy to please like that. Draco hadn’t meant to bring up the tattoo, or so he thought—perhaps he’d always wanted to, deep inside his heart.

“And what makes you think I’m an expert on the topic?” Harry asked. “I grew up with Muggles.”

“You’ve got more...experience—in the field than I do—”

“Don’t be silly,” Harry said. Then, smiling, “Take a guess.”

Draco let out a startled laugh. “How in the world—”

“It’s just a game. It’s just for fun.” Harry laughed, too. “C’mon. What do you think my flower is?”

Here was the thing: Draco’s tattoo bloomed. Two nights ago, but it had been slow all year long: sprouting, leaves spreading, pulling tall, the buds growing heavier and heavier. Then it bloomed and Draco wanted to laugh, because of course. Of course it was lemon flowers.

Now he was afraid.

He had always been afraid, just for entirely different reasons.

“Sunflowers?” he asked, as lightly as he could. He had imagined Harry with sunflowers blooming across his back for so long that it was inked into his mind, somehow, the image a truth of its own. But Harry shook his head.

“Try again.”

“Lilacs?”

“No.”

“Lilies?”

“Nope.”

“Lily-in-the-valley?”

Harry laughed. Warmth flooded Draco’s chest, so similar to the magic that thrummed every time he touched his finger to the tattoo of blooming flowers, ancient and strange and comforting all at once. He was hopeless; he was helpless, having fallen without his heart consulting him first.

Harry reached for his hand. Grasped it, pulled it underneath his t-shirt—up along his torso, up, up, his t-shirt riding up with Draco’s hand. At last stopped at his chest. A burn scar at his sternum, skin oddly smooth. Harry’s heart was beating under his palm. Draco couldn’t stop staring.

A branch of lemon flowers bloomed across Harry’s chest.

“And you?” Harry asked, voice low and quiet.

Draco wanted to laugh. Wanted to cry.

“Don’t be silly,” he said, and kissed him.


End file.
